


Rainy Day

by Abby_S



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_S/pseuds/Abby_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a rainy morning, Dean Winchester takes shelter in a small coffee shop. The rest is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely self-indulgent story. I'm not kidding, this isn't even trying to be original. I just love coffee shop AUs. 
> 
> Beta'd by VeraBAdler, who is, as usual, made of rainbows and awesomeness.
> 
> [I'm sorry for those of you who follow me and who got the email for this story twice. I messed up with the formatting and AO3 didn't want me to update it, so I had to delete the story and repost it]

There aren’t many things in existence that Dean hates more than he hates rain. There is something ridiculously uncomfortable in the way the cold, fat drops keep pouring over him like they’re trying to swallow him whole, to drown him like a rat in a drain. His clothes are heavy and clingy on his skin, and there are freaking _rivulets_ running from his eyebrows directly onto his eyelids no matter how many times he wipes them with the back of his – soaked – sleeve.

“Fucking rain,” he seethes. “Fucking _rain_ , fucking _car_ , fucking _life._ ”

A woman passes him, and he eyes her umbrella with longing. It’s pink with blue polka dots and generally visually aggressive, but he’s seriously considering the idea of running up and snatching it from her hands.

He can already see the headlines: _Firefighter steals umbrella from unsuspecting citizen._ Yeah. There’s no way in hell that would go over well.

This has to be the shittiest morning in Dean Winchester’s life, and that’s saying something. He’s coming home from a busy 24-hour shift where he hasn’t even been able to get four hours of shut-eye; his Baby has been stuck in Bobby’s garage for the past three days, waiting for the right parts to be delivered; like a jackass, he refused Benny’s offer to give him a lift; and now there’s this fucking downpour breaking down over him like some wrathful punishment of the gods. He still has three miles to walk until he gets home, and he’s freezing his ass off even if it’s _April_ and it’s _Kansas,_ for Christ’s sake.

Suffice it to say, by the time Dean sees the coffee shop around the corner, he’s in an increasingly shitty mood, and he sees the wooden sign like some kind of salvation. The logo is fairly simple and ridiculously corny: a cup of coffee with wings, and _Eden’s Coffee_ in flourished black letters underneath.

Dean sprints toward the coffee shop and almost weeps with relief when he sees it’s open. It’s only six in the morning and when he stumbles through the doors, cursing and panting, his nostrils flare with the bitter smell of _blissful_ , _hot_ coffee.

There’s already a small puddle forming at his feet by the time he comes to his senses enough to take a look around. There is absolutely no one in the shop. No customers, no barista. It’s quite nice inside, with a warm, familial atmosphere that’s rare to find nowadays – and when Dean became an old coot, he doesn’t know. There are framed photographs on the walls: black and white landscapes and fuzzy abstract paintings, artfully mixed. Wooden tables, comfortable seats, red and white coffee boxes piled behind the counter. It’s picturesque, but not in a commercial way.

Dean shuffles over to the counter. The door to the back is half open, but he can’t see if there is someone behind it, so he clears his throat hesitantly.

“Hello?”

There’s a thump, a muffled grumble, and a man’s voice saying “Coming!” before another thump and a sound that is unmistakably shattering glass. Dean glances around, unsure of what to do.

“Need help?” he asks, because apparently, even after twenty-four hours spent wide awake, he still has what Sam likes to call his ‘hero complex’.

The door swings open and a man appears holding a tray with clean white cups piled on it. He doesn’t look up as he carefully sets it down next to the cash register. Dean can only catch a glimpse of a stubbly jaw and a focused frown before the man turns his back to fiddle with the espresso machine, exposing a nest of messy dark hair and a rather nicely-shaped backside. Not that Dean is looking or anything.

“No, thank you,” the guy says, and holy shit he must smoke like a chimney to be able to pull off that Tom Waits vibe with three words. Then the man shuffles toward the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. “Three cups down, and it’s only quarter past six,” he sighs before looking up. He pauses with his mouth half open to look at Dean. He must look like a jerk, dripping wet from head to toe, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Dean smiles sheepishly at the surprised baby-blue eyes.

“It’s raining,” he offers. Then he kicks himself inwardly because _really, Dean? 'It’s raining'?_

“I – can see that,” the man says faintly, closing his mouth at last. 

“Sorry,” Dean finishes self-consciously, looking down at his feet. When he looks up, the guy has just – up and disappeared. Wow, okay. Rude.

Dean shuffles on the spot, looking around. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. For the guy to pop up from behind the counter and shout ‘ _surprise_!’, maybe. But it doesn’t happen, and he’s considering a hasty retreat when the man reappears, holding a white cloth.

“Here,” he says, sliding the cloth across the counter. When Dean just blinks down at it, he frowns. “It’s clean, I promise.”

“Wha – _Oh_.” Dean feels his cheeks grow hot. Way to make an ass of himself. He drops his jacket over the back of a nearby chair, takes the cloth and rubs his dripping hair forcefully, wiping his face and his neck with a dry corner when he’s done.

“What can I do for you?” the guy asks.

“I – uh, a coffee, please. Black.”

After he’s paid, the barista tells him to _pick a table, please, he’ll be over with his order in a minute_. Dean shrugs and complies, pulling out his phone and cringing inwardly as his thumb hovers over Sam’s number. His brother isn’t going to be happy to be pulled out of bed on his day off, but whatever. He owes him for that time Dean had to drive ten miles to pull his drunken ass out of some corporate douche bag's party.

The tone rings, and rings again, and then Sam’s voice, hoarse and sleepy, is mumbling what may or may not be an insult.

“Sammy?”

Sam moans and gurgles something. Well. It’s as good an invitation as Dean’s gonna get.

“Dude, I need you to come and get me.” A glance through the window informs him that the rain shows no signs of slowing. If anything, it’s gotten worse, to the point that he can barely see the road.

“ _What?_ ” Sam yelps, sounding more awake. “ _Dean, it’s seven in the morning on a Saturday!_ ”

Dean grimaces, scratching his chin. His stubble rasps uncomfortably against his palm. Damn, he must look like utter shit. 

“Yeah, I know. Sammy, I’m sorry, but I’m begging you, man. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and it’s raining and Baby is at the garage, and I just –” his voice trails off and he knows he’s won when Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“ _Okay_ ,” he grumbles. “ _Stop the guilt-trip already. I’m coming. Where are you?_ ”

Dean rattles off the address, thanking Sam before hanging up.

It’s the sound of a throat clearing that makes him look up. The barista is here, a cup in hand. Dean tries a weary smile and moves his arm from the table to make space.

“Long night?” the guy asks awkwardly, like he’s read about small talk in a book and decided to give it a shot. Dean sighs and takes a gulp of scorching hot coffee.

“Yeah. Man, that was the longest shift of my life.”

The guy tilts his head. “Police?” he asks, and it takes Dean a second to understand he’s asking about his profession.

“Dude, no,” he laughs. “Firefighter.”

The guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says.

The silence gets a little heavy after that, and Dean holds out his hand, clearing his throat.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”

The guy smiles a little, just a quirk of the lips and a sparkle in his eyes. It’s a good look on him. His handshake is firm and dry, and Dean realizes belatedly that his palms must be moist. Whatever.

“Castiel Novak. Nice to meet you, Dean.”

The handshake lasts a little too long before Dean lets go and Castiel goes back to whatever he was doing. And if Dean still has a stupid smile on his face by the time Sam calls to say he’s parked in front of the shop, well. It’s not his fault. He’s just tired.

* * *

* * *

**4 months later**

When Dean stumbles through the double doors, _Eden’s Coffee_ is buzzing with the chatter of college students out to get their shot of caffeine before diving headfirst into their studies. The coffee shop has been getting increasingly successful over the last months. Dean thinks it’s got something to do with its location. KU’s not far from here and, incidentally, neither is the fire station. Usually Dean tends to avoid the trendy places; he’s too old to blend in with the book-clutching, hipster-scarf-wearing fauna that lurks at Castiel’s café nowadays, but there’s a _je ne sais quoi_ to the place that draws Dean in.

Okay, no, Dean’s lying. He knows exactly what keeps him coming back. Or, rather _who_ keeps him coming back.

The thing is, Dean’s developed kind of a crush on Cas. He’d rush to deny it, because that’s how he rolls, but the guy is just _interesting_. He’s kinda broody, really grumpy, and so freaking _smart_ it’s a wonder he’s running a coffee shop and not, say, a renowned professor. And, well, Dean’s only human and Cas is a handsome fellow.

It’s the eyes, he’s told Charlie, who’s the only one to know that Dean’s appreciation for the place has nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with the owner. She’s been nice enough about it, doesn’t give him any shit when he drags her scrawny ass across the city ‘ _just to have a hot chocolate, Charlie. And maybe a slice of pie_ ’.  Though Dean’s beginning to think her eagerness has more to do with the pretty brunette in the leather jacket who’s a regular at the coffee.

A girl bumps into him, giggling and blushing, and he apologizes when he realizes belatedly that he’s standing in the middle of the room, gaze lost in the distance. She throws him a flirty smile which he returns more out of habit than anything else. He drags his eyes away from her and to the counter, where Cas is busy with the espresso machine. Plastering what he hopes is his most charming grin on his face, Dean walks towards the counter and leans against it, waiting for Cas to notice him. Meg, Castiel’s recent hire, sees him and arches a thin brow in his direction, a smirk tugging at her lips. Dean’s smile falters for a brief moment and he flashes her a childish grimace. She shakes her head, taking the coffees Castiel is handing her and shuffling away. He’s pretty sure he hears her muttering something that sounds awfully like ‘clueless idiots’.

When Cas finally turns and spots him, his eyes widen comically and he drops his towel.

“Fu –uuhudge,” he mutters, bending to pick it up. Dean snorts and shakes his head.

“Gee, hello to you too, Cas,” he says. He can’t help feeling slightly hurt. Cas usually looks happy to see him, his eyes crinkling at the corners and a small satisfied smile on his lips, but today is an exception. He looks more harried than anything, actually.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas intones gravely. “I’m sorry. It’s been a tiring day. I’ve been training a new employee.”

On cue, there’s a huge crash in the back room and Cas closes his eyes for a second, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like _Lord, give me strength_.

“I’m okay!” a male voice shouts. There’s another crash, louder than the first.

When Cas opens his eyes, he looks kinda desperate, and Dean can’t keep his sorry mouth shut any longer.

“Hey, man, why don’t you take a break? You could come and sit with me for a minute.”

Cas looks tempted, but he glances over his shoulder.

“But Garth…”

Dean looks at Meg, who’s been following their exchange with a great deal of interest.

“I’m sure she could take care of him,” he says, jerking his thumb in her direction. “Plus, no offense, dude, but she’s scarier than you.”

It was a dig, but Meg’s expression shifts from interested to smug in a matter of seconds. Castiel looks at her questioningly, almost pleadingly. “Meg, do you think you could handle the clients _and_ Garth for ten minutes?”

She smiles and nods.  “Sure thing, boss,” she drawls before slipping into the back room with the look of the cat who got the cream.

“And don’t scare him away!” Cas calls before grabbing two full cups and turning to the machine to fill them. Dean waits patiently, watching as a large group of college students exits the shop. The room feels less stuffy after that, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

When Cas joins him, he’s taken off his apron and Dean’s gaze sweeps over his body of its own accord. He realizes that he’s basically giving the guy the once-over and looks up guiltily. If Cas noticed anything, he doesn’t mention it as he crosses the room with Dean trailing behind him.

He chooses a table in a corner, slightly protected from the rest of the world, and slumps into a chair with a quiet _humph_. Dean sits opposite him and watches him cradle his cup between his hand, eyes semi-closed and lips upturned. He doesn’t really know what to say, he realizes. It’s been easy to maintain their playful banter and light conversation when there was a counter between them, but now that he’s actually fulfilling a long-time fantasy (yeah, he’s pathetic like that), he feels utterly unprepared.

Castiel’s foot brushes his under the table, and a rush of warmth overtakes him. It’s almost like – it’s almost like a _date_.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. Castiel squints at him, confused.

“What?” 

Dean shakes his head quickly and presses his lips together, scratching his chin. It’s a nervous habit, one he’s never quite managed to defeat. Judging by Cas’ expression, it’s clear that their interpretations of the moment are different.

“So,” Dean says at last. The silence may only be awkward for him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to do anything about it. “Garth, uh. He any good?”

Cas pins him with a blank stare and Dean chuckles.

“Why d’you keep him if he’s so bad?”

Cas yawns, swiftly covering his mouth with his hand. He has bags under his eyes, and his shirt looks like it's been slept in.

“I need someone else. The business is going very well, and I can afford it. And Garth is –” he pouts pensively, quirking an eyebrow. “Let’s say that he is enthusiastic and surprisingly good with clients.”

Dean smiles, bringing his cup to his lips. He can feel himself relaxing slowly now that they have found a subject. They continue to chat until their cups have been drained of the last drop of coffee, and as the coffee shop slowly empties of its customers, they stay here. It’s easy to let himself forget everything for a moment. Cas is easy to talk to; Dean doesn’t exactly share his life history, but he finds himself dropping a piece of information here and there. He talks about Sam, about his job, and his friends.

Cas, in return, offers little, but the pieces that Dean manages to snatch are interesting. Cas has a PhD in anthropology, which isn’t really surprising, considering. He has a brother and a sister, and gets along well with Meg. When he learns that Dean only has a GED, he doesn’t throw the half-pitying, half-condescending look that some of Sam’s friends sometimes give him.

He smiles, and gestures to his coffee shop. “I’m happy, here” he says simply. _I wasn’t before_ is implied, but Dean doesn’t ask, just smiles at him, a little softer than he’s used to.

“Hey, boss!” Meg calls from behind the register. There’s a lanky guy with a dopey grin next to her. Garth, presumably. Startled, Cas straightens and looks at her.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he grumbles. “What is it?”

 “My shift’s over. I’m taking the human menace home. He doesn’t have a car.”

Garth doesn’t look bothered by Meg’s insults. He nods good-naturedly and shrugs on his backpack. Perplexed, Dean glances at his cell and feels his eyes widen when he sees that they’ve been here for almost _two damn hours_. Apparently, Cas has had the same realization, because he’s scrambling to his feet, looking around wildly.

Dean’s the only customer left, and by the time Meg throws them a wink before dragging Garth out, they’re alone in the shop. Dean feels his palms starting to sweat and he discreetly wipes them on his jeans.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” Castiel says apologetically. “I have slacked off.”

Dean gulps and clears his throat, fiddling with his mother’s ring.

“Dude, don’t be too hard on yourself. You look like shit.” He freezes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Crap. He always does this, always acts too familiar with everyone. Usually it doesn’t bother him, it’s just how he is, but this is _Cas_. Cas is different. He’s been different for Dean since he came back at the shop one week after their first encounter, and Cas smiled at him without really smiling. Since Cas looked at him with narrowed blue eyes and said “Hello, Dean,” in that deadpan tone of his.

He really doesn’t want to lose this.

But Castiel, as usual, doesn’t react the way Dean expects him to. He should know, by now, that the guy _never_ does. It’s one of the things that drives him crazy. Dean’s a pretty down-to-earth guy, not easily surprised. _Boring_ , Charlie says, because she’s a jerk like that. But Castiel sometimes says the most random shit, or acts like he has no clue of how to human, with his bedhead and his grumpiness and his weird habits.

He once looked Dean in the eyes and said “Last night I dreamt I had wings.”  Just like that, before handing Dean his cup of coffee and quirking an eyebrow when he failed to take it immediately.

And, yeah, maybe that’s when Dean realized he was heads over heels for the guy.

As it is, when Castiel barks a short laugh and steps right into Dean’s personal space, bringing with him the smell of cinnamon and coffee, Dean doesn’t move. _Can’t move_ , really – frozen on the spot, eyes wide, heart pounding the freaking Macarena against his ribs.

“Do I, now?” Cas asks, voice hushed in the silence of the shop, and when Dean opens his mouth to backtrack, no sound comes out. Cas’ gaze flicks over his face, _mouth-eyes-mouth_ and settling here, on Dean’s lips.

Tension flickers between them like electricity, and Dean’s only human. He doesn’t try to resist the pull, doesn’t _want_ to. There’s a lulling, regular noise coming from outside. It takes him a split second to realize that it’s started raining as he closes the space between them. As the droplets of water hit the concrete, Dean brushes his lips against Castiel’s, feather-light. They’re dry and a little chapped, but it’s so easy to deepen the kiss. Castiel sighs against his mouth and his hand wanders behind Dean’s neck, pulling him deeper, yet still chaste enough to remind them that they are somewhere public and should really keep it PG.

When they part, Dean is slightly light-headed. Whether it's from the lack of oxygen or the way Cas is honest-to-God _beaming_ at him, he has no idea.

“It’s raining,” Castiel says breathlessly, glancing through the window. Dean knows there’s a dopey grin stuck on his face, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

“Yeah,” he nods, following Castiel’s gaze. There are rivulets of water clinging to the glass of the window, shining with the warm glow of the streetlamps.

All things considered, there aren’t many things that Dean loves more than he loves rain.

  _End._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Sapphirestiel](http://sapphirestiel.tumblr.com/) on tumblr :)


End file.
